The scars on my wrist represent pain;
hurt which I wear just beneath my sleeve.
Also on my heart.
Hidden, yet no less intense.
Moreso, for all the scars which we wear and show the world
pale by comparison to those hiding beneath the surface.
Escaping only as sobs or shrieks of pain in solitude.
The mask we wear for the world is not us.
Only a part of us.
Something we cover our true selves with
as clothing covers and protects our bodies,
or sunglasses our eyes;
even in the absence of the sun.
We hope that people will be attracted to our mask.
We live days pretending that even we cannot see past.
The truth lies within.The truest beauty,deepest hurt,greatest aspirations,and fears -- within.
Loving the mask is loving an idea.
The person: the living, feeling being
lies beneath, behind, inside.
A naked soul:
or even skin.